There is something horrifying about not being able to sleep.
As you lay in your bed, hoping for the relief that comes with losing consciousness, knowing that insomnia is striking creates a rising fear and stress that pulls you further from what you need. The counterproductive thoughts and terrors begin to grow and it isn't long before my sleeping has become a fiction. I am merely laying in my bed, forcing my body to remain motionless in an attempt to lie to my mind to convince it to accept something that will not come. It's like a sick attempt at bargaining with my own mind, I refuse to open my eyes, knowing that this will only waken me further.
Eventually I fail though. I open my eyes and I look at the clock. Minutes pass and so do hours. It isn't even clear to me whether I have slept or if I have merely lost the ability to comprehend the movement of time.
I always close my eyes again, and sleep finally comes, but it's too late. Too many of the precious hours have slipped by and I only receive a small fraction of what I need. It is a strange form of torture, it is like a dying man in the desert, desperate for water, receiving only the smallest of mouthfuls, only just enough to sustain them through the agony, long enough to reach that next precious moment when they can finally satiate their thirst.
As you lay in your bed, hoping for the relief that comes with losing consciousness, knowing that insomnia is striking creates a rising fear and stress that pulls you further from what you need. The counterproductive thoughts and terrors begin to grow and it isn't long before my sleeping has become a fiction. I am merely laying in my bed, forcing my body to remain motionless in an attempt to lie to my mind to convince it to accept something that will not come. It's like a sick attempt at bargaining with my own mind, I refuse to open my eyes, knowing that this will only waken me further.
Eventually I fail though. I open my eyes and I look at the clock. Minutes pass and so do hours. It isn't even clear to me whether I have slept or if I have merely lost the ability to comprehend the movement of time.
I always close my eyes again, and sleep finally comes, but it's too late. Too many of the precious hours have slipped by and I only receive a small fraction of what I need. It is a strange form of torture, it is like a dying man in the desert, desperate for water, receiving only the smallest of mouthfuls, only just enough to sustain them through the agony, long enough to reach that next precious moment when they can finally satiate their thirst.
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